


Affectus Transfero

by autumn_veela



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-21
Updated: 2009-06-21
Packaged: 2017-11-28 10:04:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumn_veela/pseuds/autumn_veela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George is the first stop on Draco's path to redemption.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Affectus Transfero

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [](http://saurab.livejournal.com/profile)[**saurab**](http://saurab.livejournal.com/) for the [](http://rarepair-shorts.livejournal.com/profile)[**rarepair_shorts**](http://rarepair-shorts.livejournal.com/) [Summer Wishlist Event](http://community.livejournal.com/rarepair_shorts/204954.html), with the prompt of _loss_.

George Weasley stands behind the counter of his shop, staring into the distance. Customers still come, but the store seems bleak and dark, devoid of merriment as if a Dementor hovers above. Draco watches George through the window, analyses the blank stare and the dream-like movements. George is his target for a reason. Others have lost loved ones, parents and children and lovers; but how can any of those compare to losing half of your own soul? Draco wants to understand. He wants to feel the bereavement, to take responsibility for it. He wants it to consume him.

The cheery alarm on the door startles George as Draco strides confidently into the shop, his mission clear in his mind. George stiffens at the sight of him, though he doesn’t seem inclined to reach for his wand. Once at the counter, Draco meets hazel eyes with grey and tries to inject sincerity into his stare. It doesn’t come naturally to him, but he’s learning. George’s irises are flat and dull, missing the usual spark that caused even Draco to admire them in school.  

“I want to feel it too.” Draco’s words are firm, which is a small mercy. He tries to ignore the twisting in his gut.

George doesn’t respond, although a small frown clouds his pallid features and he looks disappointed.

“I can take some of it from you. You don’t need to endure it all yourself.”

George blinks. “Take it all, then. Isn’t that why you came? I’m not fighting.” His voice is hoarse and shaky.

Draco shakes his head, careful not to lose eye contact. He has lost count of the number of people who assume him a killer. “I can’t. I need to know how it feels.”

George seems to consider this for a moment, then raises his wand. Draco flinches, but the lock on the door merely clicks, the closed sign spinning around on its string. The wand clatters to the counter as George turns, wordlessly accepting Draco’s peculiar offer.

The flat upstairs is dusty and unkempt, and Draco guesses that George hasn’t been living here recently. He heads for the tattered sofa, as a bed would be far too personal for this. They are not lovers. They are only joined in their contrasting pursuits of comprehension and indifference.

Draco casts the spell, the murmured _Affectus Transfero_ drifting through the air like the cautionary whisper of wind before a wild storm. They stand for a moment, unthinking, and then Draco steps forward. Lips crush together in pent-up frustration, and this contact alone is enough for the sorrow to grip Draco’s heart and twist it viciously. He releases George, gasping for breath, shocked at the power of the man’s grief. George’s eyes accuse Draco of weakness and he meets the challenge willingly. Their clothes come off, and George finally animates, an urgent growl bubbling up through his chest. Draco is pushed onto the sofa as if he’s a child’s doll, and the cushion is worn enough that the wooden frame bruises his thighs. But it’s not his place to complain; he asked for this, after all.

George is upon him, sucking and biting, wrapping his arms tightly around any part of Draco he can reach. The magic flows between them when they touch, and it fills Draco up, his stomach knotting, his eyes pricking and blurring. George’s rutting is unrelenting, and it takes little time before both of them are ready for the main event. Draco puts this down to the spell, but in truth he is not so sure. He deserves to be treated like this, after all. A wave of pain forces tears from Draco’s eyes as George’s fingers push inside him, as twisting and persistent as the sense of loss carving holes in Draco’s belly.

By the time George thrusts frenziedly inside him, Draco is already lost to the existing world. There is nothing now, nothing but the sense of loss so complete, the aching ebb and flow of love more intense than Draco has ever known. The magic continues its work, pushing Draco’s few good memories vigorously outwards and drawing in the bleak desperation, the helplessness, the regret. To Draco, George exists only within him, both literally and spiritually. He doesn’t even notice when it’s over.

It’s almost dark when Draco gathers the willpower to open his eyes to the world. George is gone, and he can’t tell whether the cold is real or an imagined result of his newfound grief. He lays there shivering, naked and alone, and wills the tears to come. They don’t and Draco is shattered. Shattered and defeated and consumed with loss. The small twitch in the corner of his mouth is not a smile, not with the state of despair he’s in. It’s more of an acknowledgement. The path to redemption may be a long and painful one, but Draco’s taken the first step.

He’s never felt more alive. 


End file.
